New York, City Streets
by Flygirl777
Summary: Mercedes Macclellan died in 1925. Now she has awakened as an immortal in the Cullen's care. Follow her as the family grows from four individuals to a cohesive group, as she finds love and family, and watches the last one alone find his soul mate too. AU Canon Couples
1. Prologue

**A/N: This story has been floating around in my head for some time now. I was interested in looking at Twilight, before and during, from a different perspective. To do that, we must go back in time, to the Roaring Twenties.**

New York, City Streets

Introduction...

The glow from a streetlight hits the dip in the sidewalk where a small puddle of rainwater tainted with oil and dirt sits. The small collection of water throws the light up in a reverberating glow to contrast the initial warm halo of light. A strand of curled red hair bounces in front of my eyes as a heavy rain begins to fall, the droplets ricocheting off of the black Fedora which rests atop my head. All of my hair is tucked underneath the sturdy material of the hat leaving the back of my neck exposed to the cool night. In the sky, only the moon is to be seen, the stars covered by the heavy curtain of clouds and drowned out by the lights from the city.

Maybe tonight the gentlemen will allow me entrance into the speakeasy, where vaudeville performers roam all night. The past few evenings were slow, the men at the door more careful as to who was allowed admittance, and due to the small crowds, it was not worth the risk for a few extra cents at the end of the day. Unconsciously, I reach my hands up to touch my neck, pushing my ruby hair back under the cap to be sure that my facade was still intact.

Walking still down the concrete sidewalks that line deep asphalt streets, my soft leather shoes, equipped with two metal taps, make sharp sounds against the sidewalk. The shoes had cost me a pretty penny, months of working a man's job, hiding my gender behind hats and cloth. However, I always admired the tap dancers, and, being from Ireland, it was odd and enchanting to see feet that moved as fast as Irish step dancer's did, only with a more casual manner than that of the perfectly immobile discipline of my countrymen's style. I managed to learn quite a lot from a corner performer, then promptly quit my job, and began sneaking into vaudeville clubs at night.

I turn down an alleyway, the ground uneven underneath my feet, the concrete buckling and cracking to match the brick walls pressing in on either side of me. Small sections of graffiti grace the alley, indicating that I am in a darker part of town. No street lamps shine down from above, shrouding me in darkness and beating out all sounds. A breeze blows over me, chilling me to the bone, but I press on, knowing the door I am looking for is only a few yards away now, waiting for me, the rusted steel door surely locked tight.

I pause in front of the door, my fist poised to knock, taking a deep breath before rapping on the door. 'Rap, tap, tap tap, rap'. My hand knocks the code onto the door, and a moment later the door swings out towards me, the hinges squeaking ever so slightly, but the sound magnified tenfold by the quietness of the night. Stepping across the threshold, I enter a small holding lobby, where a bouncer stands, arms folded across his chest next to a second door, through which the sound of swinging piano music and glasses smacking on tables as men called out for another round can be heard.

"Ah, Mr. Mark, it's a pleasure to have you here again." The muscled man, whose voice I recognize as belonging to Bobby, says, tipping his tinted glasses.

"It's a pleasure to be back, Bobby." I respond, deepening my voice, tipping my hat lower over my face to shroud my more feminine features.

"Head on in, and remember the deal, sir." Bobby reminds me. I nod, then he opened the door and I walked in.

The wood door snaps shut behind me, encasing the sounds in the cavernous room. A bar is pushed out from the wall on my left, allowing space for cabinets and tenders behind the counter. Oak stools sit across the smooth wood ledge, some legs longer than others, making the rickety seats all the less stable. On the right, booths in red and white surround small tables, and groups of conspirators huddle around the dim candles at the centers, whispering at some tables, yelling loud and boisterous slurs at others. Straight ahead deep red couches sit arranged tactfully, the ones closer to the far wall more occupied than the seats near the entrance, where I stand. The thing that holds my attention the most is a wood stage on the far wall, an upright piano, a pair of microphones, and a stool that was snagged from the bar sitting on it. I smile softly at the sight, before I walk up to the stage and jump up the steps.

Behind the stage, a wooden sign is hung. The letters are squiggling, moving around like spaghetti on a plate, some flipping, others incomprehensible. Squinting, I am just barely able to decipher 'Thirty per cent of tips must be payed upon exit' carved into the block.

I look towards the bar, where bartender is watching me carefully. 'I'm Mike' I mouth, and he nods silently, stoically. Then he turns away, clears his throat, and announces.

"This evening, we will be honored by having a Vaudeville performance from Mr. Michael." He says just loudly enough to be heard over the din without distracting those who don't care as I place a coin tin at the foot of the stage to collect any tips I garner.

A man I recognize as Louis from his dimpled smile joins me, sitting at the piano, waiting for my cue. At that, I launch into four triple time steps to give him the measure I'm looking for, and in the next moment, a jubilant song is being emitted from the ivory keys. My feet are flying, my posture loose, flowing with the rhythm of the music, rolling with the beat. I throw in wings, toe stands, anything to gain the attention of the crowd. As soon as I go into a stretch of syncopated wings on a toe stand, I get a person to toss in a dime.

A stomp slams through the room as I finish the song, and I realize that the room has fallen silent. As the last key is pushed on the piano, a soft but round of applause assaults my ears. I tip my hat lower over my face and have a seat on the stool, turning to face Louis, as coins are dropped in the small tin. While people were entertained, I know that tips are rare. I'm not expecting much return tonight, I never am. As Louis opens his mouth to speak to me, it starts.

My heart starts beating much too fast, irregularly. I try to suck in a breath, but I can't. Tension grips my chest. I notice I am standing still, then falling, falling, falling, falling...

**A/N: This is my first fic, so constructive criticism is taken with open arms!**


	2. Chapter One

**A/N: Hello again! Here we are with chapter one, which I hope you all enjoy. Also, to clarify a bit of this chapter, the prologue is set in 1924.**

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New York, City Streets

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Bangles go up my arm, halfway to my elbow, cross bracelets, homemade ones made of seashells, beaded things that women leave as tips if they don't possess the money to give. I would consider myself a religious person, as would anyone who saw the sheer number of gold plated crosses up my arm, the only personal thing I bought if I had money leftover from buying food and paying the rent. Up my left lobe, I pierced my ears all the way up the cartilage, studs, anchors, and of course, crosses and homemade ones out of seashells.

My hair is a vibrant shade of ruby red, naturally colored and waved, matching my forest green eyes. I have light brown eyebrows that are arched massively, and eyes shaped like a cat's. I have a small nose that points up at the tip, a smattering of freckles across it that land in small doses on my high cheekbones. My lips are small, with a slight Cupid's bow stained a light pink.

I am petite, a little over five feet tall, with a small waist and hips that are even more cinched. I am not overly curvy by any means, but have toned abs and muscled legs from years of dancing. My mother obviously didn't like my non-conservative values and style, so it was only natural that I'd leave.

My family flashes through my mind. Would they know that I was dying? Did they think I was already dead? Did they even think of me at all? Their faces flashed through my mind. Pa, with his warm face, his blue eyes still bright even after slaving away on railroad tracks all day. Debbie, her hair as unruly and frizzy as her personality, her heart oh so big. Ma, her wide girth and soft face, and her knack for using food to ease the tension in any situation. We were the Macclellan family, until I left, that is. Regret rings in my stomach, I am here floating in a pool of white, as if on clouds, while they are probably still struggling to get by.

A burning stab of anger at myself floods through me, centering near my heart. It grows stronger. Stronger. Stronger. Hotter. Hotter. Hotter. Too hot. Much, much to hot. Stinging, burning, flaming. Holding my body over a pool of lava. A scream. A screech. A bloodcurdling cry. Hell. I'm most definitely in hell. Ma would be disappointed, Pa too. I wouldn't ever get to see them or Debbie in heaven. I didn't have time to mourn because the flames were getting higher, the screams louder.

'Me.' I realize, 'It's me screaming.'

And why shouldn't I be. It is like putting your hand too close to the flame on the stove, but not being able to pull away even when the pain got unbearable. Death isn't supposed to hurt. Not this bad, not like my whole body is being reduced to smoldering ash. More screams, cries to make it stop. The only thing in my mind now was the pain. Too much. A plead to the God above screamed in Gaelic. Make it stop. Make it stop.

_._

_January 4, 1926_

_._

"Penny-Head, git yer rear end down 'ere this instant!" I yell up the grand staircase, so he can hear me over his music, though he probably could if I whispered. I swear, as the years grate on, Ed's choice in music worsens and worsens. The boring sonatas he prefers are the polar opposite of the swing music I thrive on.

He appears at the top of the staircase, albeit belatedly, with an eyebrow cocked dramatically. I find myself feeling irritated, but try not to let it show. Of course, him being the snooper he is realizes how put out I am. I feel my hair lift off my shoulders and guess that it has turned a stark array of bone white and midnight black spikes. I narrow my eyes and imagine how I should look, and feel my hair begin to lengthen and my facial structure soften.

"You sure are getting better at that control thing." Penny-Head notes, looking at me closely, "However, me to see a display of control isn't what you want me for, is it?"

He's right, of course. I want some company going out to the record shop, as I am in desperate need for some new Ethel Waters music, and it would be improper for a lady to go alone. Plus, I need someone to keep my thirst and moods in check. It just so happened that Carlisle is at a hospital function with Esme, so my dearest brother is the last resort.

"Really?" Ed asks, leaning against the banister, his arms crossed.

"And would it kill you to call me Edward for once in your existence?" He tacks on as an afterthought.

"'S not my fault that _Edward_," I say, stressing the long name, "is too formal, lad."

He sighs and comes down the stairs, walking straight past me and through the living room to get to the front door. I frown. He has been acting a little off these past few months. He isn't hunting as often and he seems more keen to rebel. While I am glad that my big brother is taking a page out of my book, it isn't right or normal for him to be anything other than a proper gentleman.

In any case, I follow after him and swiftly do up the buttons on my plum colored knee length wool coat, though I don't need the supple material to protect me from the cold. My high heeled shoes come on next, as well as a soft cream scarf as I scurry to the Tin Lizzie that Edward has already started. As I slide into the shotgun seat, he speeds down drive, taking the curves through the forest at breakneck speed. A small smile finds my face, and I can feel my appearance start to shift. So much for keeping my ability under control, I thought, the small smile vanishing as soon as it had appeared.

Ed's fingers start to tap out a rhythm on the steering wheel lightly, as we turn out to the main road. It's a soft melody I recognize as Clair de Lune, from the amount of times it was played by him since it's release a mere twenty years ago. The snow covered streets of Calgary wind through the city, which is still lit up with Christmas lights in window displays and wreaths on doors and light posts. Sales are posted, small discounts to get rid of the bulk of supplies not sold in time for the holiday, that many a woman jumped upon. With the soft song being hummed out by Edward and this beautiful bustling scene in front of me, I could almost love it here. Almost. It just wasn't New York.

"Hmmm..." Edward pauses in his tapping of Debussy as he turns to look at me.

"Did you just call me Edward in your thoughts?" He questions cockily.

I scan what I had been thinking of before, and sure enough, Ed was right. Sigh.

"Yes," I said, albeit a touch sullenly, "but I thought we have gone over this before." I remind him.

He rolls his eyes and continues to look straight out the windshield, pushing our Ford to the max.

"You know, you're not really good at this whole 'brother' thing." I announce, causing him to shoot me a glance with an eyebrow cocked.

"How about twenty questions?" He asks, "I know a bit about you from your thoughts, but nothing really big. I could get to know you a bit better."

I pause for a moment. For the past three years I have been with them, I have only ever talked about the here and now with Edward. Esme and Carlisle know a bit about my human life, but even that was only enough to have them agree to send my family anonymous checks every year to help supplement Pa's meager salary. I didn't necessarily fit the rest of the Cullen's, with my outrageous power that matched my funky personality, a sharp contrast to their well bred style. But, I stay with them because I admire their openness. I suppose a game of twenty questions on the way to the store was as good a place to start as any.

"Why did you move from Ireland?" Edward asks as I narrow my eyes at him.

"Quit snooping." I snap, then say, "Because my dad wasn't very successful as a farmer back home, he thought he could provide better for me and my sister in America." It wasn't the entirety. But it was more than I had offered up before. Ed didn't say anything on my withholding of information,which I was happy for.

"Why were you living in Chicago?" I ask in return.

"My parents lived in the city, grew up there as well. It was my only home, I had my parents and grandparents there." He explains.

"What's your favorite color?" He inquires in a light manner.

"I'm quite partial to a grey, as a matter of fact. It's protective, like an armor, it's strong." I say, imagining a light color like that you would see on a skyscraper or a stormy sky.

He nods, seeing more in my thoughts why grey is a color I appreciate.

"What is your's?" I ask in return.

"White." He says, "it's obvious, black and white. It's simple. It has a certain..." He pauses, "Clarity to it."

I can see that. The clarity of a simple thing, a reflection of every color. Quite a wise answer when you think of it in those terms.

"Your favorite gem?" Edward looks to me.

"Ruby." I say simply, and look to him for his answer to the same question.

"Pearl." He states, his answer corresponding with his color of choice.

The car hooks a right and pulls into a lot, where Edward maneuvers the car in between the pair of yellow painted lines and shuts off the engine as he pockets the keys. He opens his door and comes around to open mine, offering and arm, even though he knows I can and want to do it by myself. I choose to ignore his blatant disregard for my wishes, not wanting to risk my appearance shifting, lest I cause a scene. I smooth down the fringe - the latest style from Paris - at the hem of my dress, making sure the fabric covers my knees just so.

The plum overcoat kicks at my ankles as we walk to the front of the shop, my shoes making a sharp _click clack _on the cement. I grip my arm in the solid crook of Edward's elbow in what appears to be a dainty sisterly hold, while really I am holding on for dear life. I didn't want to disappoint Carlisle and Esme, who were in every way the best parents for all intents and purposes. They had taken me in and saved me from death, and I would just hate to disappoint them. So, I grasp my brother's arm and refuse to let the thirst get to me.

A small bell chimes as we step through the door, and heat rains down on us. To a human, this would be a relief, the outside would be chilly to their sensitive skin. I remember cold winters in New York, before I got an apartment and was living on the streets, the cold so bitter and the snow stinging until you became numb. Edward shoots me a curious look, but I ignore it, as I begin sifting through the "w" section of records that line the wall to the left of the door. I pick up the record I desire, glancing at the name, "Sweet Georgia Brown". I had heard it on the radio and had felt compelled to add it to my meager collection of songs. I am no aficionado, like Edward is when it comes to music. No, I have my select favorites in the style I enjoy, no need for much more than that.

"This is it." I say as I turn the record in my hands. Edward comes up behind me and looks at what I have chosen, though I can't tell what he thinks of it.

"Well, let us pay for it and take our leave, then." He affirms. I look and see that he has three more tracks in his hands, two classical, one jazz. While I can't say I agree with the classical, I do approve of his choice in jazz. Louis Armstrong was always a favorite of mine.

The cashier looks me over appreciatively as we approach the counter, but I studiously ignore it, though it is maddening to a horrible degree. Everyone in town knows that Walter thinks very little of women as people in general. He had his way with many a women, it was no secret. Edward lets out a low growl, followed by a clearing of his throat to pull Walter's gaze off of me.

"Just these four, if you will." Edward says setting our wares down.

"Of course, anything for the lovely Cullens." He says, staring intently at me.

He rings us up, and Edward places the proper amount of bills on the counter, then grabs the bag housing our purchases and pulls me out into the lot where we parked. As I sit in the car, I loose control of my appearance, and my hair shortens to spikes in an electric white streaked with black, my facial features sharpening, eyes shrinking to nothing but slits. I wouldn't doubt that my tongue forked. Stupid Walter, just had to make me loose control. I suck in deep breaths, and slowly feel my hair return to normal and see a ruby hue return to it, though through the mirrors I see my face hasn't changed any. I huff.

"Let's go," Edward says, "before someone sees you."

I nod, and we squeal out away from the store, on our way back home.

**.**

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed this latest installment, and that the time jump didn't confuse you all too much. I haven't gotten a review yet, so tell me what your thoughts are!**


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